


Better talk about it (while we can)

by monstermasks



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Emotionally Constipated Derek Hale, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Witches are scary, stiles doesn't know when to shut up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-07-08 11:38:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15929663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monstermasks/pseuds/monstermasks
Summary: They don’t talk about it. Which is fine because currently witches are trying to kill them all. If they actually survive until a point in time when relationship issues even feature on the priority list of day-to-day life of living with crazy, then Stiles is definitely going to sit on Derek until they talk about That-One-Time-Derek-Shoved-Him-Against-a-Wall-and-Kissed-Him-Until-the-Whole-World-Seemed-Brighter.Hopefully.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing belongs to me. Not a damn thing.

They don’t talk about it. Which is fine, no really. Stiles' is aware of his nature, he knows he’s an all or nothing kind of guy, knows that he’s a failure of a teenager because he will always follow his heart before he follows his dick, but right now it’s fine. He acknowledges, to himself because he and Derek are _not-talking-about-it_ , that it wouldn’t have been fine two months ago and that it likely won’t be fine two months from now, but currently witches are trying to kill them. If they actually survive until a point in time when relationship issues even feature on the priority list of day-to-day crazy, then Stiles is definitely going to sit on Derek until they talk about That-One-Time-Derek-Shoved-Him-Against-a-Wall-and-Kissed-Him-Until-the-Whole-World-Seemed-Brighter. Or, if that one’s too difficult for emotionally constipated werewolves, they can talk about That-Time-That-Derek-Sucked-His-Dick-Like-He-Was-Starving-For-It. Or maybe even The-Day-Derek-Rubbed-His-Come-Into-Stiles’-Belly or maybe even-

Stiles stops this train of thought because they’re in the middle of a Killing Witches 101 study date and just because there’s no werewolves about to smell his arousal doesn’t mean Lydia isn’t going to notice if he gets an extraordinarily inappropriate erection. They are going to kill these witches. And then Stiles is going to hunt Derek down and ask him why he sometimes looks like making Stiles come is the greatest thing he’s ever done. Going to ask about the massive increase in scent-marking (yeah, he’s noticed Sourwolf, you are not subtle) and maybe about the bite mark on his collar bone that Stiles keeps worrying at to try and stop it healing. But that’s all for later. For now, witches.

“Let’s go hunting.”

* * * * *

They had found a spell. Not only had they found a spell, they had found an elegantly vicious spell, a spell that had righteous fury carved into every line of it. They had practiced the spell until he had felt like his blood was thrumming with magic and moonlight and madness. Stiles loved the spell. The spell would have _worked._

It was pity that he never got to use it.

The thing about plans, Stiles mused, was that they really did rely on your enemy helpfully doing what you expected them to. For example, Stiles’ plan had relied heavily on the witches staying put, quietly and ineffectively menacing, on the outskirts of town until the Pack could deal with them. Stiles, slowly regaining his senses inside a handy little magic circle where he’d been dumped post-kidnapping, acknowledged that his strategy might need work.

“Balls,” Stiles muttered. A witch somewhere to his right giggled. With a deep, heartfelt sigh that he hoped expressed how very, very little he wanted to be in this situation, Stiles pushed himself up until he was sitting cross-legged and examined his surroundings. He was in some kind of warehouse (one without windows which made guessing how long he’d been here tricky) and surrounded by what looked like the whole coven, at least 12 men and women, standing in a ring around him. For a long moment nobody seemed to know what to say. Luckily, breaking silences was one of Stiles’ God-given gifts.

“Hi,” Stiles said and then, because he genuinely couldn’t help himself, gave a little wave. One of the witches – a younger one, maybe an apprentice – clapped her hands over her mouth to stifle a laugh. The rest of the witches, following the general themes of Stiles’ life, looked less than impressed.

“Emissary Stilinski, you are in the presence of the High Witches of the Order of Raven.” An old woman – the Matriarch part of Stiles’ mind dubbed her – intoned, spreading her arms to either side so that her white bell-sleeves spread like wings. It was all very mystical, very traditional, very-

“Lame.” Stiles muttered.

“Excuse me?” spluttered the Matriarch.

“I mean, how super lame. Of me, obviously. To be captured. By, um, you. Yeah.” The apprentice made a choked sound and was ignored. “Anyway, what can I do for you? Gotta tell ya, if you’re after an Emissary I’m not sure you’ve got the right dude. I’m really more research master slash easy victim slash comic relief. Doesn’t leave a lot of time for Emissary-ing.”

“You drew the runes on the border to this town, no?”

“Well, I mean, yeah I did. Didn’t think they’d do much good though. I got them off reddit so…” The Matriarch actually looked pained to hear that and Stiles didn’t blame her. Reddit-based witchcraft wasn’t ideal for anyone. She sucked in a breath and visibly decided to ignore this information.

“You have much power child, more than you perhaps realize, and a _deeply_ pressing need for a teacher.”

“You’re not wrong,” Stiles had to concede.

“We have decided to take you into the Order. We will train you in the ways of the Raven, to reach your full potential as a practitioner of these most sacred arts.”

“Oh my god, so lame.”

“Emissary Stilinski!”

“I mean, so lame that… you-know-what-whatever. And if I say no?” Twenty bucks says I don't have a choice, he thought.

“We will drain you and take your power for the good of the Order.”

“Course you will.” Stiles sighed. He hated being right.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god why did I start a multi-chapter fic in the middle of end of uni hell? Seriously, past-me, what the hell? You don't have time for this! Apologies for updating ridiculously small chapters at a ridiculously slow rate that... that's just gonna be the norm for a while. Sorry?

Stiles was paralysed. Sort of.

Apparently the coven hadn’t enjoyed the way he hadn’t jumped at becoming a disciple of the Order of Suck and had thrown… something at him to ‘give him time to consider’. The something was a spell of some sort, he could feel the edges of it where it pressed into his consciousness, but he didn’t think it was working quite like how the coven would have wanted it to. Don't get him wrong, the spell had laid him out pretty effectively. His body was paralysed, leaving him on his back with one hand upstretched in what had been an instinctive and futile attempt to block the spell, but... yeah, no, for a super creepy Coven this was just shoddy workmanship. For one thing, he was pretty sure he could actually lift the spell, if he tried hard enough. The edges seemed, he didn't know, _flimsy_ somehow and they gave slightly under the press of his own magic, like prodding at a loose tooth. He could _probably_ lift it, but he wouldn’t. No matter how annoying having his arm frozen uselessly in the air was. Removing one spell didn’t help get him out of the magical circle after all, and in all likelihood would just lead to another spell being cast, one he wouldn’t be able to shift. So there was that, also, if he'd chucked a spell over an enemy he would have made damn sure they weren’t aware of everything going on around him. Just saying, it kind of defeated the purpose, to his way of thinking. Unless they just didn't care what he heard because he was kind of helpless in their handy magic trap which... yeah, okay, he could see that. Fucking  _witches,_ man, they don't even leave you the dignity of feeling mildly threatening. Stiles lay still and dormant, eyes frozen open by some not-very-good magic, and carefully listened to what was being said.

Well.

Okay, he had been doing that, but they must have had him for a little while longer than he had hoped, and his Adderall was beginning to wear off. So, he was _trying_ to carefully listen to what was being said but, after ruthlessly paying attention to what was pretty clearly an argument about what to get for dinner, was actually thinking about Derek instead. Stupid, fucked-up, ADHD brain. Stupid, fucked-up, heart. Stupid, fucked-up, Derek, with his bunny-teeth and mood-ring eyes. He wondered if Derek knew he was missing yet. He wondered if he was worried. He wondered whether he had already lost all hope in finding Stiles alive. Derek was too practiced at losing things now, had already lost too many…

‘ _Not me too_ ,’ Stiles thought grimly, ‘ _I won’t be another invisible scar_.’ And he wouldn’t; Derek wasn’t getting away from him that easily, all witches aside. Not when he was maybe, _maybe_ , so close to getting everything he wanted.

In the abandoned warehouse, trapped by a circle of magic and a sort-of effective spell, Stiles allowed himself a minute to drift away, just a bit. The witches didn’t seem to be doing anything interesting in his earshot anyway (still debating the merits of Italian versus Chinese… well, he was pretty sure they were arguing about dinner. The other option was that they were having a casually racist argument about who to kill next which, just, _no_ ) and honestly, he had bigger problems then witches right now. Alright, maybe not bigger problems, but certainly more pleasant ones. For example, what to do about Derek’s not-so-subtle stalking.

Now, Stiles was a modern kind of guy and, more importantly, not a character in a Rom Com, so he knew stalking was weird and not-okay on every level. He knew that, conceptually, he knew that. It was just, the rest of him didn’t appear realise it. Every time he caught sight of a leather-clad figure awkwardly shuffling out of sight he just… God, his stomach got all warm and he felt his cheeks flush and he was pretty sure his heart literally fluttered (which was worrying on a number of a levels, not the least the cardiovascular). In truth, the only problem Stiles had with the stalking was that, after he’d caught the awkward-stalking, he wanted Derek to get on with the awkward-joining.

If that made any sense. It probably didn’t.

God, he was such a fuck up. This not-talking thing he and Derek were doing was screwing him up in all kind of knots. Just as soon as they dealt with these goddamn witches he was gonna-

“I think it’s time Emissary Stilinski joined us once more,” A cold voice intoned and, oh look, Stiles was out of time. Abruptly, he realised he could blink again; looks like this show was back on the road. “What is your answer, Emissary Stilinski?”

“Well,” said Stiles slowly, sitting up, “This is just such an honour, obviously I’d love to join such a prestigious Order but, ah, I am unsure whether I am worthy, you see. I am but an untrained... _worm_ to such greatness.” Stiles stalled, not entirely sure what else to do. Behind his back, he crossed his fingers for luck.

"True," The Matriarch agreed, smugly.

"Right! So, I guess, to really conceive of such an, an opportunityfor the like of me I must search my soul,  _deeply_ , to ensure my own worthiness for such a Great Cause." He smiled winningly at the Matriarch who looked... okay, fairly dubious, but maybe also a tiny bit amused so maybe he was in with a shot?

“Very well, Emissary, we will prepare the necessary supplies while you… soul-search." Or maybe he wasn't, oh well. "Jenna!” The Matriarch snapped at the young witch, the one who'd laughed earlier. “Get the knives.” Stiles, noticing three things in that interaction that he could use, began to make a plan.

The three things were, in order:

1) A potential ally’s name. Using someone's first name, when done correctly, can suggest a level of closeness and trust, whether or not such a level actually exists.

2) The Matriarch’s tone: demanding, this was an order to an inferior, not a request to a colleague. Jenna’s sullen glare at the Matriarch’s back even as she rushed to do her bidding spoke volumes about her position in the coven.

3) Knives. Knives, Stiles could use.

What Stiles couldn’t know for sure (but suspected), was that he wasn’t the first one to be kidnapped and ‘volunteered’ into joining the Order of the Raven. Jenna, who clearly held a precarious position in the coven and little to no respect, though plenty of fear, for its ruler looked like a fresh, not super-willing, recruit to Stiles.

And he was right. Not two months earlier Jenna had been in Stiles’s place, staring out at a ring of women who looked so much bigger, so much more powerful, than her. She did feel bad for him, this Emissary Stilinski. This brave boy with enormous eyes, trapped like a wild animal and with a smile to match, but she felt worse for herself. ' _Survival is a single player game'_ , she thought, and distributed the knives. And she _was_  a survivor, pragmatic to extreme. _'This boy is nothing, nothing, but a detour on the road and your life is more important than his',_ she told herself and made herself look away. In her mind he was already dead.

None of which stopped her from feeling a flicker of interest when the boy hissed at her: “Hey, Jenna, you wanna fuck some shit up?” She glanced around herself, wary, but the boy had chosen his moment carefully. The coven was gathered around the Head Priestess, feeding her strength, feeding her their magic. Jenna, who was kept constantly drained anyway, was doing her duty as the lowest rung in the Coven, which meant tending to the fiddly minutia that witchcraft demanded; checking runes, refreshing herbs, gathering blood, etc. Whatever the Priestesses didn’t want to get their hands dirty with, basically. There was no one within earshot. In fact, there was no one paying them the slightest bit of attention because the boy was in a cage and Jenna no less trapped then him. God, she hated them all.

“I can’t help you,” she hissed, “they’ll kill me.” The boy shot her a knife-sharp grin before resuming a rather unconvincing ‘Oh no, help’ expression.

“To be honest with you, Jenna, I wouldn’t exactly describe it as help.”

* * * * *

When Jenna returned to the Coven her knife was bloody. The High Priestess raised one fine eyebrow at the red-edged blade, but Jenna just shrugged. “He tried to convince me to let him go,” she said, and the High Priestess gave her a rare smile of approval.

“Stupid boy, well done, Jenna.” Jenna nodded and carefully faded back into the scenery again. “Now, let’s begin. Emissary Stilinski, your answer.” The boy in the cage gave a shrug and another wild grin, he looked remarkably cheerful for someone that was about to be killed quite painfully.

“So sorry, ladies and gents, I’m just not much of a _joiner,_ y’know? Good luck with the whole mysterious-coven-of-the-bird shebang though, full marks for effort.” And then he gave them a double thumbs up. The Matriarch sighed, unsurprised and not particularly putout, and nodded to her coven to begin the rites. Jenna would have stifled a giggle, and maybe facepalmed, just a little, but Jenna was no longer in the building.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg, it's done! Guys, this took way way way too long. I apologise, uni killed me. But, finally, we have a resolution!

When a vicious pack of werewolves burst into the warehouse mid-ritual and began to violently shred everyone in sight, Stiles wasn’t exactly surprised. High on relief? Oh yes, but not surprised. A little fuzzily (magic-draining _literally_ takes it out of you) and a lot smugly, Stiles gave a weak fist pump.

“Ha! You're a sap and I'm a _genius_!” He crowed and then immediately winced. Ok, there would be time to be smug later, for now he’d better concentrate on not passing out.

The reason he wasn’t surprised at the sudden arrival of a pack of vicious predators was a) last-minute rescues were practically their MO at this point and b) there was that other thing that that he and Derek Weren’t Talking About. This Thing (number 309 or so) was the way that Derek always, _always,_ knew when Stiles was hurt. When and also, more importantly in this case, _where_ he was when he was hurt. Stiles, who was not the most graceful guy in the world and was actively involved in a supernatural horrorfest besides, had more than enough instances to spot the pattern months ago. So, because he was Stiles and, let’s face it, his health would always come second to his need to Know Immediately, he tested it. Armed with nothing but morbid curiosity and a house full of items to potentially inflict minor injuries he found that:

Bruises: Got no response. Nothing. Zilch. Nada.

Mental distress: Equally unresponsive although now he was genuinely disappointed because, honestly, what people prone to panic attacks really needed was a big frumpy hug on call. Particularly people who’d worked themselves into one on purpose and could literally only blame themselves. Particularly people in a big, empty house, all alone, he was always alone, and his Dad wouldn’t be home for hours and hours and God only knows where Scott is this time and he was probably going to die, they were all going to die… Stiles didn’t test this one twice.

Headache: No response which was good. Brooding had always exacerbated Stiles’ headaches.

Withdrawal: Not fun. Also, not effective, but mostly just not fun.

But one day, just as he was beginning to think he was crazy, success. Minutes after Stiles had made the cut there was a thump from upstairs. A thump that sounded suspiciously like 180 pounds of furry man-pain was here to pretend like he wasn’t worried. Seriously, who did he think he was fooling, Stiles hadn’t even put the knife away yet. Stiles grinned triumphantly at the bead of red sliding down his wrist. Blood. Of course it was blood.

Further testing confirmed it; it didn’t matter how small the injury was, the second his blood was spilled, Derek was aware of it. Once, when they were training outside the old Hale house, Stiles had ‘accidentally’ let one of Allison’s arrows slip over the pad of his finger and got to see Derek’s head whip around even as the tip dug into his skin.

“Whoops,” Stiles had said, stuck his finger in his mouth, and then got on with very carefully not examining how he felt about this.

Finding out that Derek could find him when it happened really had been an accident. He’d been wandering through the forest, _pretty_ sure that he was going the right way (shut up, Scott) when he’d tripped on a root he hadn’t seen in the dark (so it was night, _shut up, Scott_ ) and grazed his knee. Derek had found him minutes later.

(“Oh wow, that could’ve only been a drop, that’s crazy.” Stiles had said.

“What?”

“Nothing.”)

* * * * *

Anyway, armed with Derek’s nth special power of being a blood sniffer or whatever, Stiles’ Grand Plan had formed quickly. He executed it like this:

“Jenna, I need you to cut me.”

“What? No.” said Jenna which, yeah ok, Stiles guessed he could have been a little less left-field there.

“No really, I swear, Jenna, just one little cut and my whole werewolf found-family is gonna bust in here teeth first.” he cajoled hopefully.

“Can’t you just, I don’t know, do it yourself?” asked Jenna dubiously.

“As it turns out, no. There’s some kind of charm in these runes that’s preventing me from hurting myself. I’ve been trying not to think about the particular set of circumstances that led to them being included.” Jenna grimaced in agreement. “Honest, Jenna, I just need a quick cut, you tell Mother Superior over there that I was getting mouthy and then slip out the back door before all hell breaks loose.” Jenna was shaking her head, but she looked conflicted.

“They’ll come after me,” she whispered, “They always come after me.”

He grinned at her wildly and, nonsensically, the phrase ‘how big your teeth are’ ran through her mind.

“Not this time, Jenna. This time, they won’t be coming after anybody ever again.”

Jenna had been kidnapped from her home two months ago and been treated like a slave ever since. When you’re being kept constantly drained of magic, making you weak and vaguely nauseous and very helpless, two months is a long, long time. She was tired. She was scared. She was still a survivor.

“Make sure you kill them all,” she hissed and walked away with blood on her knife. She didn’t look back.

* * * * *

The fight was over before it had begun. The Matriarch was holding all of the coven’s strength, but she was also the one standing over a writhing Stiles so she died first. The rest, magically drained, leaderless and shocked, went down fast and brutal. Bare minutes after the Matriarch goes down her coven is gone and Derek is able to turn to the boy grinning up at him from the floor. Trembling slightly, he gathers Stiles close and runs careful hands over as much of him as he can reach. Derek’s a big guy and Stiles is pretty skinny, so what he can reach is a lot. Stiles tries not to preen too much under the attention.

“Where are you hurt?” Derek demands.

“Nowhere, I’m fine. I’m fine.” Stiles soothes, gentle and little embarrassed by it. It's amazing how much better the world looks from a pair of broody, leather-clad arms.

“No, no, I _felt_ it- “ Derek stutters out.

“Just a cut, Der, I swear. Just so you knew where I was,” he pulls up his sleeve and shows Derek the thin slice, already closing on his wrist. Derek blinks at it, lost.

“But _why-_ “ Stiles feels a stab of annoyance.

“Well, they took away my phone, Derek. Something you want to tell me about this emergency line I apparently have running under my skin?”

“I- you- “ Derek can’t seem to find any words, he looks helpless. And, Stiles abruptly realises, hopeless.

“It’s okay,” he sighs, “we can talk about it later.”

“Later?”

“Later,” Stiles confirms. “We have time.”

And with that they have reached the limit of what Stiles can deal with today. He presses his forehead to Derek’s and lets himself be held close, lets himself be _kept_ , just for a moment.

(Behind him, unseen, Scott walks, open-mouthed, into a wall. Also unseen, Erica filming it with an absolutely vicious grin.)

Tomorrow they’re going to talk about the blood thing and the way neither of them can quite seem to keep from pressing into each other. Stiles suspects the talk will involve words like ‘bond’ and also ‘mate’, and deliberately doesn’t examine the feelings that bubble in his sternum whenever he thinks them. He knows enough to know that it’s big and grand, this thing they have, the way old fairytales are, but precious too and so, so soft. And that’s enough, for now, to know just the shape of it. He _also_ knows that tomorrow’s talk will feature all the ways that Stiles is an idiot who puts himself in danger, and probably the way Derek is an idiot who never lets himself believe he can have nice things (Stiles thinks it's funny that Derek thinks he is a _nice_ thing), but that’s okay. Stiles is pretty sure they’re going to have many, many talks on these themes over the years.

After all, they’ve got time.

 


End file.
